


beauty of the beast

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Community: i_reversebang, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eames takes on a job from Cobb to shape shift as his daughter, he knows that this will be interesting. When he's told that he'll be playing prisoner to the wicked beast in the castle just outside of the town, he isn't sure what to expect. He doesn't expect to find Arthur, a bitter ex-hunter who is still struggling to come to terms with his curse, and he definitely doesn't expect to fall for a man who refuses to believe in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Inception Reverse Bang, based on this picture by distracterisey, whose additional illustrations can be found [here](http://distracterisey.livejournal.com/16323.html).

It’s an hour past midnight when the witch hunters come. Mal wakes first: one hand reaches for her husband, the other for her daughter.

“Dom,” she shakes him awake, his senses less sharp than hers without the magic flowing through his veins, “Dom. We have to go.”

Ariadne is already awake, sitting up in her bed, eyes wide and terrified. Dom gets to his feet immediately and Mal waves a hand around the room, gathering their belongings in the blink of an eye.

“Where are we going?” Mal asks, throwing her coat on, helping Ariadne into hers.

“Arthur’s,” Dom says, sounding confident although Mal shakes her head.

“No. Not Arthur.”

“He’ll help us, Mal, he’s my friend.” They don’t have time for arguments; they don’t have time to do anything but run. Dom saddles up their horses, helping his wife and daughter up onto one and climbing onto the other.

“He hates magicals, Dom!” Mal says, loud enough that her voice carries over the howling wind, “He’s a _hunter_ , how can you trust him?”

“I have to. _We_ have to.”

Arthur Wolff has been a friend of Dom’s for years. He lives in the ancient castle of his ancestors, separated from the village by a large forest. The path is winding and it is very easy to get lost, but Dom knows the way. He leads his family through the old trees with their gnarled trunks, knowing how to avoid the wolf dens as they reach the castle.

Arthur has always kept late hours, preferring to hunt once the sun is down. He notices their approach, greeting them at the iron gates as they dismount from their horses.

“Arthur, the witch hunters are behind us. They’re after Mal and Ariadne. We need a place to lie low for a while.”

“I see.” Arthur doesn’t look at Dom once, his dark gaze fixed on Mal, who stares at him in turn. “The forest would have thrown the hunters off. Dom, if you want, you can stay here.”

“But not us,” Mal finishes. She doesn’t look surprised, but her grip on Ariadne’s shoulders tightens. “You won’t protect your so-called best friend’s family.”

Arthur sighs, as if this pains him. He finally looks at Dom. “I warned you the hunters wouldn’t leave you alone. I told you it was a bad idea to marry a _witch_.”

He says the word with so much venom that Dom flinches. Dom doesn’t look at Arthur when he says, “I love her.”

“Love,” Arthur repeats, with a bark of laughter.

“Arthur, please.” This time it’s Ariadne. There is a ten year age gap between them but they’d been close, until her magical blood had begun to show.

“No.” Arthur is resolute. “I won’t allow witches into my home.”

“Arthur,” Dom says in dismay. “I promise Mal and Ariadne won’t do anything. We’re running out of time—”

“Ariadne is young. She won’t have any control over her magic.” Arthur’s tone is bitter. “My answer is no, Dom. If you _loved_ your family, you’d stop wasting your time and leave before the hunters catch up to you.”

Dom shuts his eyes with a pained expression, not wanting to believe what he is hearing.

“You are a wicked man,” Mal spits, her eyes bright with anger. Dom only realises what’s happening when it’s too late. She points at Arthur and there is an ethereal echo to her words when she speaks; “I curse you, Arthur Wolff. I curse you once, to become the same as the beasts you hunt with so much hate. I curse you twice, to be condemned for eternity in this form if you ever take the life of another magical being. I curse you thrice, to open your stone heart to love, or allow your obstinacy to be the death of you.”

“Mal—” There is nothing Dom can do now, watching the transformation already taking place. Arthur’s eyes are wide in fear and pain as he feels his body changing form.

“No,” he moans, gripping the bars of the gate, staring at his clawed hands in horror. “ _No_!”

There is a rose in Mal’s fingers, thorny and unnaturally bright and glowing. She drops it at Arthur’s feet. “For every cycle of the moon, your rose will lose one petal. The only way you can break this curse is to understand what it is to be a lover. To know what it’s like to be half of a whole. If you don’t, you will die with the very last petal.”

“Change me back!” Arthur demands, throwing himself against the gate. The entire thing rattles and he growls—cutting himself off when he realises that he sounds just like the monsters that he’s devoted his entire life to killing. Something inside him breaks and Dom can see it in his expression.

“Come on,” Mal says, and Dom turns away, reaching for his horse with a shaking hand. Mal touches his shoulder and he nods silently, guiding his horse into the forest again and away from the village, away from the Wolff castle.

The witch hunters never catch up to them, but as they reach the outskirts of the forest, Dom thinks that he can hear the baleful roars of what was once his closest friend.

•


	2. Beauty

The market is a bright and cheerful place, with colourful stalls and lively music, but Dominick Cobb barely notices, winding his way through the crowd mechanically, concerned with only one thing. His daughter is sick. Phillipa’s health has been steadily deteriorating over the past few days, and none of Mal’s healing magic has done anything to help. There is only one person he knows that has any chance of knowing what to do, and that is the apothecary.

There is a small, wooden sign declaring that the tiny shop is open today and Dom wastes no time. He pushes the door open, already untying his coin pouch from his belt. “Good morning, Yusuf.”

A head full of dark curls pokes out from the storage room at the back of the shop and Yusuf comes out, setting two large bottles of colourful liquid on his countertop before walking around to greet Dom warmly.

“Good morning. I’d normally assume you’re here to ask about Arthur, but you look far too serious for that.”

“It’s Phillipa,” Dom grimaces, beginning to list the symptoms for Yusuf; a high fever that won’t come down, the delirium, her inability to keep any food down… he slows down when Yusuf picks up a quill, beginning to write on a sheet of paper.

When Dom is done, Yusuf studies the list for a moment and then hums at the back of his throat. “There is a remedy I can make for this, but I don’t have any of the ingredients with me. They’re all up at the castle, I’m afraid.”

This sends a jolt of discomfort to Dom’s very core. Yusuf opens his small store in the corner of town for a few hours every second or third day, but he doesn’t live here. He works at the Wolff castle—one of the very few people Arthur has retained after his curse—and he lives there, creates all of his medicine there before carting it down to the town with the permission of his master. Dom doesn’t like thinking about Arthur, unhappy and alone in the castle, no doubt hating Dom and his family for the curse that has ruined his life.

His desperation to heal his daughter, however, is far stronger than any guilt attached to the thoughts of his old friend. He steels himself and says, “I will pay you any sum if you can get me the remedy by midday.”

Yusuf hesitates, considering this. “You realise that I’d need to close my shop and go all the way back to the castle?”

“It isn’t far,” Dom says, which isn’t entirely true. He places his money pouch on the countertop, satisfied by the way the heavy clink of gold captures Yusuf’s attention. “I’m sure the entire contents of this pouch will make it worth your while.”

Yusuf frowns, stroking his beard in thought before finally saying, “It would be quicker for us both if you come with me.”

“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.” Dom raises an eyebrow. “Is it even safe for me to be anywhere near the castle?”

“Arthur won’t notice,” Yusuf says dismissively. “He keeps to himself—he barely even notices the _staff_ around the castle. We’ll be careful. Come. If you want your daughter cured as soon as possible, we’ll have to leave now.”

“You’re sure?” Dom asks, but he barely waits for the final nod before he leaves to saddle his horse up for the ride to the Wolff castle.

The forest is as dark and unwelcoming as Dom remembers it to be. His horse is unhappy to be here and he strokes her mane comfortingly, following Yusuf down the same winding path that he’s never really forgotten, past all the dead ends and to the castle.

“We’ll take the servants’ entrance,” Yusuf says, leading the way around a small clump of trees and around the high stone walls. They leave their horses in the stable by the door and Dom follows Yusuf into the castle, careful not to let his footsteps echo too loudly against the marble floor.

Yusuf has his own laboratory in the castle; it’s actually a second kitchen in case the first isn’t big enough, but it’s been so long since the castle has had enough guests to make proper use of one kitchen that the second just isn’t necessary. Yusuf makes good use of it, however, keeping the shelves well-stocked with all the ingredients he would ever need for his elixirs and remedies.

“I have just the recipe,” Yusuf says, walking right past his large recipe book and taking ingredients straight out of their storing places, throwing them together into a pot. “I have better instruments here than in that tiny shop—I should have your daughter’s medicine done in ten minutes. You’ll be safely out of here in no time. Take a seat.”

Dom sits, looking around the lab and marvelling at how much the castle has changed since the last time he’d been inside it—years ago, now, longer than he can even remember. Everything is different now; the place is darker, quieter, nowhere near as welcoming as Dom remembers when the rest of the Wolff family was still alive.

Yusuf hums absently as he begins to brew the medicine for Phillipa, and he’s almost finished with it when they hear a loud crash and an angry growl from just outside. Yusuf freezes, almost dropping the bottle he’s holding, and Dom swears under his breath.

“ _Yusuf_ ,” the angry growl precedes its owner. Arthur makes an intimidating figure in the doorway, his furious expression making his features even more frightening. “Why are you letting strangers into my castle?”

“Arthur—” Dom begins, but falls silent at the hateful glare sent in his direction.

“I’m not sure what led you to believe that you’re welcome here.” Arthur’s words are bitten off and his entire body is tense, as if it takes all of his self-control to keep himself from lashing out. “But I would like to disabuse you of the notion right now.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I can, Arthur. I just came here to ask for Yusuf’s help. Phillipa’s sick, and he’s the only one who can do anything to help her. Please.”

Arthur lets out a bark of laughter, harsh and bitter. “Do you really think it’s going to be that easy? You’ve come into my home uninvited—you, of all people, who have no right to be here. What makes you think I’m going to help you? If you don’t have my permission to enter the castle, you don’t have my permission to leave. Yusuf, go and check if any of the dungeons are serviceable.”

“Master…” Yusuf begins, eyes wide with surprise. He doesn’t protest any further, but nor does he move to obey the order. Serving Arthur for so many years has emboldened him. He knows where the line is, and he hasn’t crossed it yet.

“Yusuf, go,” Arthur growls warningly, but he stands his ground.

“Mr. Cobb’s daughter is gravely ill. Left untreated, she’ll certainly die, sir.”

Dom flinches at the words, and Arthur does too.

“Please, Arthur,” Dom says once more, and Arthur frowns in thought, looking away.

“I’ll let you save your daughter,” he finally says, “at a price. You’ve trespassed and I’m not going to let you forget that.”

“Name your price, then.”

“Your older daughter, Ariadne. Send her to the castle as a prisoner, and I’ll send Yusuf with the medicine.”

Dom laughs in disbelief, but Arthur’s expression doesn’t change, and Dom shakes his head. “No. I am not going to send Ariadne to be locked up in some dungeon—”

“She’ll have the freedom to go wherever she wants, within the castle walls. If she has no access to her spell books, perhaps she won’t turn into a witch like your wife.” Arthur reaches for the bottle Yusuf has filled with Phillipa’s medicine, his claws clicking against the glass. “Leave her here until her magic dies out, and then she’ll be free. You want to save Phillipa, don’t you? Especially since—Yusuf, didn’t you mention that the witch was pregnant _again_?”

“You…” There’s a look of pain, horror and disgust in Dom’s eyes. “You really are a monster with no heart, aren’t you?”

Arthur smiles cruelly. “Just remember that it was Mal who made me like this.”

Dom shakes his head, looking at the bottle in Arthur’s hand. He’s silent in thought for a long moment before he finally says, “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll send Ariadne.”

Arthur nods, looking satisfied. “I’ll give you until the sun sets to send her. Then I’ll send Yusuf with the medicine.”

“If I may…” Yusuf speaks up, looking between Dom and Arthur. “I’ll measure out a small dose to send with Mr. Cobb now, so his daughter’s illness doesn’t get any worse. She’ll need the rest of the doses to fully cure her, so I’ll take those with me after Miss Ariadne arrives at the castle.”

“Do whatever you want,” Arthur waves a hand dismissively, placing the bottle back down on the counter. “I trust that after this, you’ll remember that you aren’t welcome anywhere near the castle, Cobb.”

He leaves without another word, his coat fanning out behind him as he walks. Yusuf gives Dom an apologetic look, holding out a small vial.

“I should have known better than to underestimate him. This is my fault.”

“I’m the one who should have known better. He used to be my closest friend,” Dom sighs, pocketing the vial and handing over his coin pouch. “I’d hoped that he’d changed, even a little… if anything, he’s only gotten worse.”

“You know how stubborn he is. I don’t think anything will make him change.”

“It’s going to be the death of him. Just like the curse said.” Dom rubs a hand over his face, feeling incredibly weary the way he does whenever he thinks of Arthur for too long. “There really is nothing we can do.”

 

•

 

It’s been half a month, and the hunters are still looking for Eames. Half a month of hiding with Mal Cobb and her steadily growing family, sleeping in one corner to keep out of the way and helping to take care of Mal, due to give birth in another two weeks, and Phillipa, who is too weak to get out of bed. It keeps him from feeling restless, which is the last thing he needs while still waiting for the last bit of trouble he’s caused to cool down, but he can’t help but feel like he’s imposing on the family.

Ariadne is sitting at the dining table, her spell book open in front of her, looking up when Eames walks out of the bedroom, having checked up on Phillipa.

“How is she?”

Eames sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve no medical experience beyond patching myself up after fights, love, so I can’t say. She’s asleep, though. Are your parents still talking outside?”

Ariadne nods once. “I think I heard Mother yelling. I wasn’t brave enough to go and see what it was about, though.”

Eames chuckles, “That’s a good idea. Your mother has quite the temper—especially these days.”

“We’ll find out eventually, I guess,” Ariadne says, flipping the page of her book.

As if on cue, Dom walks back into the house, looking harried. His gaze settles on Eames and he sighs wearily. “Eames. I have a job for you.”

“You’d like me to shape shift as someone?”

Cobb nods. “I need you to masquerade as Ariadne.”

Eames and Ariadne exchange glances. With a quiet chuckle, Eames sits down at the table. “This one sounds like it has an interesting story to it.”

“You have no idea.” With a humourless smile, Dom says, “Tell me, what have you heard about the beast at the Wolff castle?”

 

•

 

There’s an eerie silence that follows him out of the forest, broken only by the sound of his horse’s disgruntled whinny. Eames pats her mane reassuringly, dismounting and leading her along the path.

The castle looms over them as they approach and Eames stops for a moment, taking a good look at it. Wicked-looking gargoyles snarl down at him and even in the late afternoon sun, the dark stone makes everything look bleak and depressing. Eames can see the remnants of what must have once been an impressive garden, now overrun with weeds, neglected and forgotten.

Despite that, as he walks closer to the castle, he notices that the statues at either side of the long path are polished and when he reaches the tall iron gate, there isn’t the slightest bit of rust on it. Clearly, he thinks, whatever stories Nash is spreading in the village of a feral beast with no humanity left are absolute rubbish. Not that he’d ever believed them anyway; especially with Cobb and Ariadne insisting that the beast—Arthur, they’d called him—had a good heart, buried somewhere deep inside him.

Not that Eames cares either way. He checks his shifted form one last time, making sure he’s holding himself properly and clears his throat to ascertain that it’s Ariadne’s voice he hears. He’s here for the gold Cobb has promised him for the job; a ridiculously high amount for hiding out in an isolated castle. If Arthur wants Ariadne locked away so she can’t practice magic, Eames can play the part. If Arthur wants Ariadne to warm his bed, Eames can play that, too. All he really cares about is getting the hunters off his back. The moment they are gone, so is he.

A dark-skinned man approaches the gate from the castle and unlocks it, inclining his head in greeting. “Miss Ariadne. I apologise for this. I tried to talk the Master out of it, but you know what he’s like.”

Eames hums, non-committal, leaving his horse in the stable before following the man into the castle. From the inside, it is breathtaking. The architecture is exquisite; broad arches and old, polished wood. Eames’ imitations of Ariadne’s boots click against the marble floor as he is led up the stairs and to a room roughly the size of the Cobb’s house.

“You’ll be staying here. The Master will see you at dinner.” The man pauses for a beat and says, “My name is Yusuf, by the way. I’m the castle’s steward. Of course, Ariadne would already know this, but you aren’t her.”

Eames raises his eyebrows, but says nothing to confirm or deny it.

Yusuf continues, “Cobb wouldn’t agree to send his own daughter as a prisoner—certainly not as easily as he did. Considering it was Cobb who sent you, I’m thinking you’re the shape shifter Mal is friends with. Mr. Eames, I presume?”

“You’ve done a lot of research,” Eames says, impressed.

“It’s the Master’s research. I help him organise it when he updates his records. He keeps files on every magical creature in this area.”

“Neurotic,” Eames mutters, and Yusuf laughs. “Does Arthur know that I’m not actually Cobb’s daughter, then?”

“If he does, I doubt that he would have allowed you into his castle,” Yusuf says. “But you should be careful. If he does find out, I doubt he’ll take it very well. He hates all magical creatures as it is… and I don’t know how he’d classify a shape shifter, but I’ll warn you now that he’s particularly hostile when it comes to magical beasts.”

Eames snorts. “He is one.”

“Well, the curse happened afterwards. There was a bad experience with beasts a long time ago, so he doesn’t react to them particularly well. Or peacefully, for that matter.”

“Okay. Make sure he believes I’m Ariadne. Simple. I _am_ the best shape shifter around.”

“You’re better off not underestimating him, and staying as far away from him as you can. He isn’t fond of company and his temper… can make him dangerous very quickly.” Yusuf checks his watch. “I need to deliver the medicine to the Cobbs. There’s a bathroom two doors to your left if you need it. Don’t wander around the castle on your own.”

“Say hello to my little sister for me, won’t you?” Eames asks, his tone soft and concerned without even needing to pretend.

Yusuf clears his throat, struggling to reconcile what he sees in front of him and what he knows. “You need not worry, Miss Ariadne. My medicine will have your sister back to full health by tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Eames smiles, all Ariadne; a flawless disguise that he wears without even having to think.

“I’ll fetch you for dinner when I return,” Yusuf says and then he’s gone, leaving Eames alone in his room, in a castle that may as well be abandoned for all he’s seen of anybody else. He hears nothing; not the sound of any other servants, not even a sign of the beast himself.

 _How lonely_ , Eames thinks. He is already wandering down the corridor outside his room. _No wonder they say he’s mad_.

The castle is vast—even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside—and Eames’ room is located in the south wing. From what he can tell, of the abandoned rooms he passes, with neatly made beds and unused tables, this side of the castle has been designed for guests.

He searches each one individually, but they’re all bare, showing no sign of even having been used for the past several years. They are still kept meticulously clean, but the air is still and no matter how brightly furnished each room is; they all feel dull and lifeless, much like Eames’ own room.

He unpacks what few belongings he’s brought with him onto his bedside table; three thick books and another smaller volume of poetry, a sketchbook and several pieces of charcoal wrapped in cloth. He puts them aside; he’ll turn to them once he gets bored but for now, there are still far too many things to explore. He’ll just need to look in the north wing—undoubtedly where Arthur is. Surely he’ll find more interesting things there.

Eames is about to leave his room again to find the way to the north wing where he hears the front door open. Yusuf has returned and Eames curses under his breath, returning back to his room and settling into his overstuffed armchair, uncomfortably stiff from disuse, and picks up one of his books.

He’s convincing enough, even with his gaze barely skimming the book’s pages, because Yusuf seems genuinely relieved to find that Eames is exactly where he’d been left, instead of wandering around. Eames, as he has learned to do with most people, lets Yusuf believe what he wants.

“Dinner’s this way,” Yusuf announces, leading the way down a long hallway. Eames follows one step behind, humming in thought.

“There aren’t any mirrors in the castle, are there? I haven’t noticed a single one since I got here.”

Mirrors are important for shape shifters, but Eames knows that he’s skilled enough to wear another person’s face without slipping up. Still, it doesn’t make the lack of mirrors any less unnerving. “Let me guess. They went after the curse.”

Yusuf’s smile is strained enough to warn Eames that this is sensitive territory and he drops it, distracted by his surroundings. The lower level of the castle is filled with open spaces, high ceilings with intricate chandeliers, wallpapers of rich colours and beautiful patterns. The marble floor is polished to a shine, and Eames takes some comfort in the reflection it provides; Ariadne’s face framed by her brown hair looking back at him.

He’s far more relaxed because of it when they reach the dining room. Arthur isn’t there yet, but the table is fully set for two with an array of dishes laid out giving Eames more choice than he’s ever had in his life.

“You’d best be starting now, Miss,” a maid says seriously. “If you’re lucky at all, you’ll be done before the Master even joins you.”

Yusuf sends her away with a calming hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing so bad. If you’re hungry, though, you might as well begin. The Master does everything on his own terms, in his own time.”

“He likes to be in control,” Eames nods, piling food onto his plate because it looks far too appealing to be left sitting there.

Arthur’s arrival is announced by the clear sound of footsteps and the way that the servants at the table—Yusuf included—tense immediately.

Eames wonders what to expect. The town’s stories of the beast paint him as some sort of monstrosity; wicked, unpleasant and frightful. Arthur, when he enters the room, seems to be none of these things. He is not some kind of towering creature, he is not covered in scales or fur; he is a man. His skin has the pallor of one who has spent their days shut away inside and it’s impossible to miss the horns; large and curved, catching and reflecting whatever little light there is in the room. His eyes are a deep red and his hands are clawed. The rumours Eames has heard have been grossly exaggerated, he thinks, but without any real disappointment.

“Ariadne,” Arthur greets curtly, and says nothing more. He sits down, turning his attention to his food and Eames watches him for a moment, allowing himself to settle into Ariadne’s character.

“Let me go,” he says, knowing from Arthur’s expression that he’ll be refused. This isn’t a real gamble. He’s here, out of Cobol’s sights, for as long as need be. It just doesn’t hurt to play the role of unwilling prisoner if it means he won’t be discovered. “Please, Arthur. You don’t need me here and Phillipa’s sick. Mother is pregnant and—”

“Your father should have thought of that before entering my castle uninvited,” Arthur says, and Yusuf stiffens. “No. You aren’t going anywhere. Just be thankful that I haven’t decided to throw you in the dungeons.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Before Eames had left for the castle, Ariadne had taken him aside and explained that they’d once been friends. Now, Eames presses the angle of the long-abandoned friend. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I would, very easily, _witch_ ,” Arthur spits, and Eames is quickly understanding that though Arthur may still look mostly like a man, his personality more than makes up for it – makes him the beast in truth. He keeps the thought to himself, but it’s a very close thing.

He blocks his own thoughts out, immersing himself in his disguise, thinking and acting as Ariadne, asking questions, unafraid of pushing boundaries. Arthur tolerates it—barely—but he is ignoring Eames throughout dinner, but once they’re done and Eames is following him to the north wing, still asking questions about what he does and whether he feels lonely, Arthur turns on him with a threatening growl. It’s an utterly inhuman sound that makes Eames stiffen, his well-honed survival instincts making him instantly alert.

“I have provided you with an entire room,” Arthur says slowly, “on the other side of the castle, for a reason. If you do not leave me alone, I promise that you will regret it.”

Eames tilts his chin up, projecting the same defiance he sees when Ariadne is being told something she doesn’t like.

Arthur bares his teeth, clenched in irritation, and this time, they’re standing close enough for Eames to see that they’re pointed.

“I want to go home. You can’t just shut me—or shut yourself—away in this castle just because of your curse—”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about the curse,” Arthur snarls, drawing himself to full height and now, Eames can definitely see the beast. Arthur points a dark claw at him. “I will remind you again; you are a prisoner here and you have no right to argue. The next time I have to remind you, it will be with shackles, in a cell that’s too small to sit. Are we clear?”

Eames has a very good sense of self-preservation; he does dangerous things, but he knows when to draw the line. He is also very good at seeing through lies and right now, both of these instincts tell him that it’s wise to back down.

“Fine.” Eames takes a step backwards, raising his hands defensively. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Good.” Arthur turns, walking towards the north wing, climbing the stairs and disappearing from sight.

Eames watches him leave in silence, unanswered questions hanging in the air. He turns away with a shrug, returning to his own room. He’ll just have to find the answers himself.

 

•

 

By the afternoon of the second day, Eames is bored and restless. He hasn’t seen Arthur once all day—not even at lunch—and Yusuf has been in town since morning, so he’s not even there to break up the monotony.

Eames puts his sketchbook down with a huff, the page littered with uninspired scribbles. He gets up, deciding to go for a walk, just to have something to do. Eames is good at a lot of things—he can lie, cheat and steal effortlessly—but sitting idle has never been one of them. He keeps track of the turns he makes, so he knows which way to return, but pays more attention to his surroundings than where he is going. This part of the castle is decorated richly, the walls here are covered with more paintings than Eames could ever produce—or forge—in a lifetime and the rooms are well-lit with ornate chandeliers, not as grand as those downstairs, but still far more beautiful than any others Eames has ever seen.

He passes tall windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, covered by thick curtains that allow no light through. Eames pulls a curtain aside to peer out and the sun is beginning to set. The forest glows in the reds and oranges, as if it is burning, and Eames lets the curtain fall back in place, turning away from the unsettling sight.

He continues to walk until the lights become dimmer, the candelabras spaced further apart, every other chandelier turned off. He reaches a staircase and realises that he’s found the north wing; this is the same place Arthur had left him in after dinner. He peers ahead, seeing the hallway fade into darkness. His curiosity spurs him onward and he walks towards the darkness, each candelabra becoming spread out further and further until they afford only the bare minimum of light. Eames can’t see any details here, must pass more doors than he can count, but he’s only interested in walking forward, wanting to know what he’ll find at the end of his strange trail. The candle light, constantly growing closer and then further, makes it difficult for Eames’ eyes to adjust to the dark and he places a hand against the wall to guide him.

He feels the wallpaper beneath his fingers, dry and smooth, but then there’s something else; tears in the paper, dips— _gouges_ —Eames realises. Claw-shaped gouges in the wall; incredibly deep, doubtlessly caused by Arthur himself. He truly is a dangerous creature, Eames realises. Someone he definitely shouldn’t be underestimating.

He’s about to continue walking forward when a hand settles on his shoulder. It’s only years’ worth of experience sneaking around where he shouldn’t be that keeps Eames from crying out in shock. He turns, ready to attempt disarming an angry beast, only to find Yusuf standing there, looking harried and unimpressed. In the dim, flickering light of the nearest candelabra, Yusuf jabs his thumb back the way Eames has come, and Eames has little choice but to obey.

Yusuf doesn’t stop walking, and his body language makes it clear that Eames isn’t to stop following. They walk away from the north wing and down the stairs, into a room lined with pots and bowls and herbs of all kinds.

“I knew I’d find you in the north wing,” Yusuf mutters, fishing his glasses out of his pocket and opening one of the windows. The sun has gone down by now, and the wind that blows into the room is cool.

“Really.” Eames is still more shaken than he’d like to admit.

“You seem to be the type of person who believes they can handle more than they really can. I don’t think you realise how close you were to danger,” Yusuf doesn’t sound angry; working for Arthur must have done wonders for his patience. “Don’t do that again. Not if you value your life.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic—”

“You found those claw marks. We both know that I’m not exaggerating. If he’s made it clear that he wants you to leave him alone, then you should be doing exactly that.”

“And do what? Let my mind rot with boredom?”

“At least you would be alive,” Yusuf says simply, and then turns to a pot on his stove, lighting the flame beneath it.

When Eames is not kicked out, he looks around, realising that this is Yusuf’s laboratory. There are bottles of coloured powders and liquids on the shelves, and empty vials sitting on the bench top, waiting to be filled with whatever concoction Yusuf is working on now.

“Arthur isn’t a very accommodating person, is he?” Eames says at length, to break the silence.

Yusuf looks at Eames over the top of his glasses. “Is that a question?”

“Not the real one,” Eames smiles. “Why does he let you into the town so often to your apothecary shop? If he’s really so hostile, I find it a little difficult to imagine that he’s so willing to let you spend all of this time away from your work at the castle, doing something that you _want_ to do.”

“You make it sound like he doesn’t benefit from it,” Yusuf measures the liquid from the pot into a vial and peers at it critically. “Who else would run errands in town?”

“Of course. Because the beast doesn’t like being seen by people. Is that why the north wing is so poorly lit? Or is that just to keep people away?”

“I’m not going to talk about the Master and his curse,” Yusuf shakes his head. “He won’t appreciate it and I’m not taking that risk.”

“Because you’ve learned from experience?” Eames tries, but Yusuf is immovable. He simply continues with his work, measuring out ingredients and mixing them together without a single glance at the book of recipes that lies shut on the table beside him. Eames watches for a while longer, but his questions go unanswered and unacknowledged.

Eames isn’t the type of person to be discouraged when things are difficult; he likes the challenge that it presents him with, and when he leaves the laboratory to return to his own room, he isn’t giving up. He’s only working out how to get the answers that he’s after.

 

•

 

Eames goes down to Yusuf’s laboratory the next morning after breakfast; once again eaten alone with no sign of Arthur anywhere. Yusuf isn’t going into town today and looks up from a set of calculations that he’s doing, not looking very surprised to see Eames.

They don’t speak to begin with, but Yusuf is clearly waiting for the questions to begin again and there’s only so long that Eames can flip through Yusuf’s recipe book, not understanding every other ingredient that is mentioned.

He asks about Arthur’s hatred for beasts, because of the way it makes Yusuf’s eyes darken. Bad memories, Eames guesses, and only feels slightly bad for pressing the issue. He gets nothing; Yusuf simply repeats the same things he’s already said about a bad experience. He is being purposefully vague, Eames can tell, and it’s impossible to glean any kind of information from his words.

“I told you yesterday that I’m not going to talk about the Master’s curse,” Yusuf says, and then glances at the door, lowering his voice just a fraction, “So, Mr. Eames, why don’t you answer some of my questions instead?”

Eames’ lips quirk upward, recognising the attempt to distract him. He decides to go with it, for now. “What would you like to know, then?”

“You’ve willingly come here to be locked away in a castle, indefinitely,” Yusuf doesn’t pause for confirmation, “I can’t think of many people who would do that. Are you hiding from somebody?”

Eames chuckles. “Somebody. Several somebodies. An entire coven, in fact.”

“Not the Spinning Top,” Yusuf says, mostly to himself, “because—according to the Master’s records, at the very least—you’re part of the local coven. So a rival, then. I was right about you; you’re the type of person to find more trouble than they can handle.”

“I’m handling my trouble perfectly well, thank you.” Eames’ eyes are bright with amusement when he adds, “It’s Cobol, by the way.”

Yusuf puts the jar in his hand down so heavily that it nearly cracks. “ _Cobol_. Are you mad? They’re ruthless.”

“And here I am,” Eames spreads his hands out, “hiding in a castle they’ll never look, to avoid being cut up into several pieces by their hunters.”

“Hunters,” Yusuf snorts dismissively. “Clearly, they’re no good at their jobs.”

“Not like Arthur,” Eames prompts, finding the crack in Yusuf’s taciturnity.

“The Master was the best hunter there ever was.” There’s a touch of pride to Yusuf’s voice. “He was ruthless. He would hunt his mark down until they were found. He would never lose track of them, the way Cobol’s lost track of you. I was apprehensive at first, but he was talented.”

“And then he stopped.”

“He had to,” Yusuf is so caught up in his memories that he doesn’t even pay attention to what he’s saying. “His curse forbids him from taking the life of any magical creature—”

“Ah, there we go,” Eames smiles. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

Yusuf purses his lips together with a frown. “You’re a tricky bastard.”

“Now, that’s no way to speak to a lady,” Eames gives Yusuf Ariadne’s sweetest smile. “I’ll tell you why Cobol’s after my head, if that’ll make you feel any better.”

“It better be good,” Yusuf grumbles, and Eames laughs, telling his story of tricking the coven by disguising himself as one of their members, working his way into the inner circle of the group and then making off with their ancient book of spells, leaving a blank forgery in its place.

If anything, Yusuf definitely seems impressed. To Eames’ surprise, it’s easier for them to get along now, though he suspects that may have something to do with the fact that he’s no longer hounding Yusuf for information. They talk as Yusuf works and then out of both boredom and curiosity, Eames begins to help; first by locating ingredients, but then Yusuf hands him a second pot and a set of clear instructions.

“To keep you out of trouble,” he says, but Eames can tell that Yusuf appreciates the company.

The day passes quickly this time, with Eames and Yusuf exchanging stories; Eames talking about the past jobs he’s pulled and Yusuf talking about his life outside of the castle and his work. The long, flowing sleeves on Ariadne’s dress nearly catch alight several times and Eames finally decides to shift her clothes into something more practical.

“You could just shift into your normal self,” Yusuf suggests, glancing at the door carefully first. “The Master never comes down here unless he needs to. He won’t notice.”

“Are you sure?” Eames raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who warned me to be careful not to let Arthur realise that I’m a shape shifter in the first place. I do imagine this would be a relatively safe place to escape Arthur’s notice, but I’d rather not take the risk at all.”

It’s enough that he’s dropping Ariadne’s mannerisms when he’s here in the laboratory with Yusuf, he thinks, but the next day, he’s carrying a large pot of boiled water from one tabletop to another and nearly trips over Ariadne’s long skirt. He curses under his breath, dropping the shift for the first time since leaving the town, and it’s such a relief to be in his own skin that he doesn’t want to shift back.

Yusuf makes no mention of it, but Eames is careful to make sure that he is perfectly disguised as Ariadne when he’s out of the laboratory. Not that he sees Arthur at any rate, but Eames knows better than to let this lull him into a false sense of security. It’s enough that he’s trusting Yusuf not to make mention of the shape shifting by virtue of the fact that Arthur will be equally displeased with him for going so long without telling him in the first place.

Arthur, however, is far more perceptive than he is given credit for. It’s been four days since Eames has arrived at the castle and when he goes to Yusuf’s laboratory after lunch, he doesn’t realise that Arthur has followed him until it’s too late. He shifts back into his normal self and before he even has a chance to understand what’s happening, there’s a clawed hand wrapped around his throat, his back pressed against a wall.

“Arthur,” Eames greets with a tense smile, “haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Finally.” Every word is laced with contempt. “I’ve been waiting for you to slip up. You took longer than I expected.”

Eames’ gaze flicks across the room to Yusuf, who looks equally surprised and terrified. Arthur follows the movement and laughs hollowly.

“Did you think I needed to be _told_ that you weren’t Ariadne?” Arthur’s grip on Eames’ throat tightens. “Did you think that I wouldn’t realise, when I didn’t get the rise I expected out of her parents? Did you really think that just because I’m a _monster_ , I would forget that a parent would fight for their child’s freedom?”

“And you got none of that,” Eames chokes out, his voice strained. He pulls on Arthur’s hand, loosening its grip, but only slightly. “You were counting on a fight, weren’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t reply, which is answer enough. He growls and Eames swallows down the rising bubble of panic, managing a small grin.

“You thought that the Cobbs were acting suspiciously calm about their daughter being locked away in a castle with a beast.”

“I wanted to take something away from them. I wanted them to know what it’s like to lose something important, the way my entire life was taken away from me,” Arthur snarls. His grip on Eames tightens, lifting him off the ground, “and instead I get _this_. A shape shifter. Eames, I would assume.”

“Wouldn’t do to kill me,” Eames gasps out, “I’m a magical being, remember? Wouldn’t want to go against your curse, now.”

Arthur immediately lets go of Eames, turning on Yusuf. “You told him.”

Eames laughs. “Please. Give me some credit. I tricked him.”

“Of course you would,” Arthur spits. “If I could kill you—”

“But you can’t.” Eames’ smile is smug and Arthur glares at him with loathing.

“This changes nothing,” he finally says, crowding into Eames’ space. In his own form, Eames is almost the same height as Arthur, but the horns and the way Arthur carries himself makes him look far more imposing. Eames ducks his head backwards to avoid the pointed ends of the horns and Arthur’s lip curls. “You aren’t Ariadne, but you are still my prisoner. Just be glad that I haven’t ordered you to be locked in the dungeons.”

Arthur turns on his heel and leaves. Eames watches him go, unperturbed. Nothing has changed; Eames is still staying at the castle for as long as it takes for Cobol to lose interest in him, and then he’s gone. He’s broken out of more heavily-guarded places before.

 

•

 

The atmosphere in the castle is tense the following day and Yusuf looks extremely relieved when he tells Eames that he’s going to be in town for the entire weekend. For him, this means three days away from the castle and away from Arthur. To Eames, this means three days of utter boredom, with nothing to distract him from the vague sense of unease that settles over him whenever he thinks of Arthur having kept an eye on him, waiting for him to make a mistake.

Thankfully, it fades soon enough. Now that Eames is staying in his own form, he doesn’t need to worry about keeping in character. He’s free to let his curiosity take over and by the late morning, he’s exploring the north wing again. Arthur doesn’t bother to stop him, so Eames indulges himself, taking a candlestick with him as he walks through the darkness, opening doors and exploring the rooms on this side of the castle. There are many that have been left unused, but Eames finds a vast armoury, filled with an array of weapons. The edges of some of the blades have been dulled from extensive use and though they have all been cleaned and polished, Eames can easily imagine them being drenched in blood, held in Arthur’s hands when he hunted.

It’s not the most comforting of thoughts. Eames turns away from the armoury, continuing to explore. There are several rooms with minimal furnishing that all look the same, but one of them catches Eames’ attention. It’s larger than the others, and there’s a couch positioned in the middle of the room, in front of an unused fireplace. He considers it for a moment before walking inside. Arthur had only told him to leave him alone; he’d said nothing about using any of the rooms and besides, Eames reasons to himself, there are plenty of rooms in the castle; he may as well put one to some good use.

The castle staff have kept all of the rooms incredibly clean, and so there’s very little for Eames to do. He pulls the curtain aside, thrilled to discover that the window faces the opposite direction to the forest, looking out towards the faraway mountains instead. It’s a much more cheerful view, and Eames goes about rearranging the tables and chairs in the room, clearing a corner before going downstairs, finding one of the castle’s servants and begging painting supplies off them. They find him an old easel and some unused canvas with some pots of paint, and Eames takes them to the room he’s claimed as his own, setting everything up.

He paints for half a day, riding a rush of inspiration. He paints the view outside, he paints the laboratory, he takes his charcoals out and uses those as well, content with the mixed colours, the feeling of physically creating something. He only notices he has an audience when Arthur clears his throat, standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?”

“I think that’s obvious enough,” Eames continues to paint without even looking at Arthur.

“Who gave you permission to be here? Why is that window open?”

“Oh relax, Arthur,” Eames says lightly, “I’m not bothering you, am I? So kindly do the same.”

“You _are_ bothering me,” Arthur growls, taking a step into the room before he stops himself, taking a deep breath. He turns to leave, but pauses for a moment at the door. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” Eames calls after him, and it takes all of Arthur’s willpower to keep walking away.

 

•

 

Eames is there again the next day, working on a new painting. Arthur announces his presence with a frustrated growl, but Eames doesn’t even turn around. He’s humming under his breath, carelessly dripping paint all over the carpet as he works, the pages of his sketchbook rustling in the breeze that blows in through the open window.

“I thought I made it clear that I don’t want you here.”

Arthur’s voice comes from directly behind Eames, but he doesn’t jump, doesn’t react at all but to reply, “Well, you should have thought about that before deciding to make me your prisoner.”

“You’re welcome to any room in the castle if you stay out of the north wing. _Any_ room. Take your pick.”

“I pick this one,” Eames replies, pointing a dripping paintbrush at the window. “Just look at that view.”

“I don’t want the windows open. I don’t _want_ to look outside.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames’ voice is mocking, “does it upset you to see the outside world that you’re so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.” Arthur’s voice has a warning growl to it, but Eames is not dissuaded.

“Ashamed, then. You said yourself that you’re a monster. Just like all of the ones you used to hunt—”

“I am leaving this room,” Arthur cuts in. “And if you value your life at all, you will be gone from here by the time I return.”

“We both know that’s an empty threat,” Eames calls in reply, and Arthur’s only response is the slam of the door.

Eames doesn’t go anywhere. He makes a concentrated effort to make this room his own; the carpet and wall in one corner are spattered with paint and there are pots and brushes sitting on every available surface. He lets his painting dry when he goes to eat lunch and returns with another makeshift canvas to work on. Arthur returns late in the afternoon and while he doesn’t look surprised to find Eames there, he certainly isn’t happy about it.

“You are leaving this room,” Arthur declares.

“I am not.”

“That wasn’t a request. You have a minute before I throw you out myself.”

“Really, Arthur. If you think that you can intimidate me—” a crash makes Eames fall silent. Arthur knocks a table aside, sending pots of paint to the floor.

“Get out!” Arthur roars, advancing on Eames.

“You’re acting like a child throwing a tantrum,” Eames says mildly, “and you’re spilling paint all over the floor. Now, you can look as murderous as you like but we both know—”

“I might not be able to _kill_ you, Mr. Eames, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. I’m sick of this—sick of you doing what you want in _my_ castle. You aren’t even meant to be here, shape shifter, and if you don’t think I’m aware of the price Cobol has on your head, you’re sorely mistaken.”

An unpleasant jolt runs through Eames at this. Arthur _knows_ ; every moment he spends at the castle out of Cobol’s sight is not on his own terms, but Arthur’s. He hides his unease beneath a smirk. “And yet here I am. Still in your castle as a prisoner, because kicking me out would mean admitting that you’ve been tricked. That Mal—a _witch_ —tricked you, and you can’t bear that thought now, can you?”

“Quiet,” Arthur snarls. “Don’t you dare—”

“I don’t think I’m the prisoner at all, Arthur. _You_ are, trapped here because of your damn pride—”

This time, Arthur doesn’t even give any warning before lunging at him, claws swiping at Eames’ chest. Eames barely manages to step backwards out of the way and then Arthur is swinging at him again, the back of his hand connecting with Eames’ jaw with enough force to send him staggering.

Arthur descends on Eames, kicking, punching, tearing at him, learning the way Eames moves to defend himself and countering every blow sent at him.

“If you—aren’t going to—bloody stop—” Eames manages to say between blows, and then Arthur’s being thrown back, landing on the floor as Eames stands in a different form; thick-skinned with arms like tree trunks, his large fist punching Arthur with enough force that his head jerks sideways.

“You cheater,” Arthur growls, spitting blood from where he’s bitten himself. He swipes his claws at Eames again, already calculating the strengths and weaknesses of this new form. It’s big and there’s a great amount of force behind every hit, but Eames is slower like this. Arthur is agile and he uses his smaller form to get past Eames’ defences, ready to strike him again when suddenly, the large, easy target Eames presents is gone, replaced by something smaller, more snake than any other creature, winding around Arthur and constricting.

“You learn quickly,” it still speaks with Eames’ voice, “but I shift quicker. You may as well give up, Arthur, because I’m always going to be one step ahead of you.”

In response, Arthur sinks his pointed teeth into the scaly skin that wraps around him. Eames cries out in pain, unwinding from Arthur, shifting again, not as large as before, but he’s muscled and intimidating, with a good balance of both speed and strength. Arthur blocks one blow, taking another to his stomach. He gasps for breath but Eames does not stop; he bodily lifts Arthur off the floor and throws him back down, standing over his sprawled figure and waiting.

“Get up,” Eames barks, but he sounds tired. He waits a moment longer, but when Arthur doesn’t move—his face pressed against the carpet, mouth open as he pants for breath—Eames drops his shift, back to his normal self.

They’re covered in smudged paint and a glance towards the corner of the room tells Eames that his easel is broken, the canvases with his completed pictures ruined. He shakes his head at the broken brushes, the cracked bottles, and turns to the door.

“There, you’ve ruined everything,” he mutters to Arthur, still lying on the floor. “Are you happy now, you insane bastard?”

Arthur gives no response, and Eames doesn’t wait for one. He limps away from the room, from the fight, trying to find satisfaction in the fact that at least he’s still standing.

He isn’t sure why, but he can’t.

 

•

 

The next morning, Eames is in so much pain that he can barely get out of bed. The rags that he’s used to bandage his wounds have bled through and he strips them off in the ornate bathroom, washing the blood away.

He remembers seeing something in Yusuf’s recipe book; a remedy to help wounds heal and restore energy. It takes him much longer to make his way to the laboratory in this state, but it’s worth it in the end; once Eames finally manages to follow the instructions, the medicine makes him feel much better. It’s a slow process, but by the time lunch has been set out, Eames’ wounds have stopped bleeding and he’s no longer limping.

The food definitely helps and the pain has faded to a dull throb by the time he’s leaving the dining room. He stops in his tracks when he comes across Arthur, clearly on his way to lunch himself. Arthur looks much worse than Eames—even in the morning. He holds himself like there’s nothing wrong, but his movements are slow and pained, and Eames can see the way he’s just barely resisting the urge to curl in on himself, against the pain.

“Arthur,” he says, mostly in surprise. This is the first time they’ve come across each other in the castle by chance—Eames highly doubts that Arthur would allow himself to be seen like this on purpose. He glances back over his shoulder, at the dining room. “…Do you need any help?”

Arthur’s only reply is a snarl. Eames doesn’t push the offer, but watches the painfully slow way Arthur moves and before he can stop to question why, he’s back in Yusuf’s laboratory, making a bigger batch of the medicine.

He already has a small bottle of it in his pocket for when he needs it, but he fills a small vial with the red liquid, slipping that into his pocket too.

By the time he’s done, Arthur is no longer in the dining room; a maid that Eames passes says that he’s most likely in his study and looks at Eames like he’s mad when he asks for directions.

Carrying a large candelabra with him to the north wing, Eames walks down the dark corridor, past the art room that still lies in disarray, past the armoury, and stops at a large oak door, knocking once before pushing it open.

He knows he’s in the right room when he’s greeted with an angry, “Get out.”

“Good to see you too, Arthur,” he says cheerfully, walking further into the room. Unlike the hall outside, Arthur’s study is well-lit. The walls are lined with bookshelves and Arthur is sitting at a large desk with books and sheets of paper stacked neatly on top of each other. There’s a large window like the others in the castle, the heavy curtains pulled shut. There’s a small table sitting in front of it, with a black cloth draped over a curious shape, but Eames decides he’ll look later. He crosses the room, placing the vial in front of Arthur on his desk.

“What is this?”

“Medicine. From Yusuf’s laboratory. It helps—I thought you could definitely do with some.”

Arthur eyes the vial with distaste. “And why would I trust anything from you, shape shifter?”

“Perhaps because I look and feel a lot less like death than you do.” Eames takes his own bottle out of his pocket. “See? It’s the exact same thing and _I’m_ not limping around like I’ve had the shit thoroughly kicked out of me.”

Arthur growls at that. “You think I don’t know how easy it is to slip poison into drinks that look perfectly harmless? No, I’m not that stupid.”

“You’re impossible,” Eames huffs. “Is it always this difficult to convince you to do something that’s good for you? Just take it, Arthur. Don’t make me force you.”

“You wont be forcing me to do anything,” Arthur snaps, picking the vial up and peering at it critically.

“You’ll drink it, then.”

Arthur snorts derisively, and crushes the vial in his hand in reply.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eames growls, and he’s reaching across the table, taking hold of the collar of Arthur’s shirt and dragging him across the polished wood, paying no mind to what is knocked over in the process.

Arthur’s breath hitches in pain and though he scrabbles to break free of Eames’ hold, he is too weak for it to be effectual.

“What are you _doing_?” he demands, too stubborn to stop struggling as Eames drags him out of the room and through the dark corridor, down to the laboratory.

“Sit here.” Eames pushes Arthur towards a bench, glaring at him with enough force to keep him where he is. “Now, shut up and watch me.”

Arthur growls quietly, making himself as comfortable as possible on the stone bench, reminding himself that this is _his_ castle, no matter how far out of his depth he currently feels. He’s silent as Eames sets out several jars of dry ingredients, naming each of them as he adds them to a bowl of boiling water. He stirs it for several minutes before holding it towards Arthur for inspection.

“See? It’s the same bloody thing you refused to take before. Not a drop of poison, is there? Now, unless you’re inviting me to show you just how much more I can make you hurt, you’ll be drinking this one.”

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur mutters, accepting the cup that Eames offers him.

“Are you going to take it or not?” There’s a determination in Eames’ eyes that tells Arthur that he won’t get any answers even if pushes, and he knows better than to do something so pointless.

“It takes a while to kick in,” Eames explains, pouring the rest of the medicine into a bottle and placing it in front of Arthur.

“I know that. I’ve taken Yusuf’s medicines before.” Arthur pockets the bottle without looking away from Eames. “I’ll warn you now. Manhandle me like that again and I’ll make sure that you regret it.”

Eames chuckles, shaking his head. “Really, Arthur. I’d like to see you try.”

 

•


	3. Beast

When Yusuf returns to the castle, the first thing he hears is a loud crash. He can tell that it's from the north wing; any violent sounds tend to be, but he’s already spent the entire weekend imagining worst-case scenarios in which Eames pushes Arthur just a little too far. And even if Eames is just using the isolated castle to hide from a powerful coven, he still makes good company and Yusuf would be sorry to see anything happen to him.

He hurries upstairs, following the sounds of what he now knows is a fight. There’s a room full of natural light, the afternoon sun shining through the open window. The furniture in the room has been pushed aside and Arthur and Eames are struggling in each other’s grip, trying to push each other down to the floor.

“Stop!” Yusuf cries in dismay, running into the room and pulling Eames away from Arthur. “Honestly! I leave you alone for a few days and you’re already tearing each other to pieces!”

“What are you doing?” Arthur sounds irritated and Eames struggles out of Yusuf’s grip, giving him a confused look before he understands.

“Oh, he thinks we’re actually fighting.” Eames rubs his bruised knuckles and licks the small cut on his lip.

“You’re…” Yusuf is at a loss for words, struggling to make sense of what he sees.

“Sparring,” Arthur supplies. “Until you interrupted.”

“Don’t you worry,” Eames claps Yusuf on the shoulder. “You missed the big fight already. I’m taking a sip of medicine, Arthur, you want any?”

“You’ve been fighting,” Yusuf says, dazed, and then notices the bottle in Eames’ hand. “ _And_ you’ve been in my lab.”

“Would have asked first if I could,” Eames smiles, and Yusuf has the strong urge to double-check everything in his laboratory immediately.

Eames watches him go before turning back to Arthur, who is leaning against the wall, catching his breath. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve lost the rhythm of it now. I’m not in the mood.”

Eames frowns, disappointed. As much as he enjoys these sparring sessions, Arthur is the one who decides when they begin or end—he’s the one who uses them to get back into practice after not having fought for such a long time. Eames is aware that Arthur likes being in control of everything, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

So instead of backing down because that’s what Arthur wants, and because Eames is still in the mood for a good fight, he shape shifts. His new form is nothing specific; just something anthropomorphic— _beastly_ —covered in dark fur, with long claws and big teeth. It’s enough to make Arthur respond immediately, roaring with anger and attacking him in a frenzy.

Eames drops the shift immediately, trying to block Arthur’s swings and hitting him back. Arthur’s anger makes him forget his technique and it’s quick to fade, leaving him open for Eames’ punches. He pins Arthur to the floor, holding him down until he stops struggling and surrenders.

“Don’t,” Arthur grinds out, once they’re both sitting on the floor, catching their breath, “ _ever_ do that again. I cannot be held responsible for what I’ll do if you ever provoke me like that.”

Eames stoppers his bottle of medicine and hands it to Arthur. “Why do you react so strongly?”

Arthur never talks about his curse, or his life before that, but now, he’s too tired to deflect. He sighs heavily, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Werewolves,” Arthur says the word with such venom that it nearly makes Eames flinch. “There was a young pack just nearby—my family was ambushed.”

“And you’re the only one who survived,” Eames says softly, remembering what Yusuf had told him. Something tugs at his chest at the thought. “Oh, Arthur…”

“I hunted them down,” Arthur continues, his voice unwavering. “I killed the entire pack, and I couldn’t stop there.”

“So you became a hunter.”

“I hunted all beasts. Werewolves, harpies, centaurs, _anything_.” Arthur looks at his clawed hands as he speaks. “I never went far enough to hunt witches or warlocks, but I didn’t even try to hide my distaste for them. My _best friend_ was married to a witch and I couldn’t like her. I couldn’t trust her, even when I tried.”

“And Mal didn’t appreciate that very much.” Eames nods.

“We didn’t get along at all.” Arthur shrugs. “We couldn’t.”

“Then you refused to help her when she was being hunted by the witch hunters,” Eames prompts. He’s heard the story from her perspective, but he’s curious to hear Arthur’s.

“And so she turned me into _this_. The same as the beasts I hated so much, as punishment. As Yusuf has already told you, if I ever kill another magical being, I forfeit all hope of ever being turned back.”

“So you _can_ break the curse?” Eames asks, unsure why it even matters to him.

Arthur snorts dismissively. “Technically speaking, yes. Realistically… no.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Seven impossible tasks?”

“No. Just the one.” Arthur shakes his head. “The one condition for breaking the curse is that I have to fall in love. _Love_. How ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Eames asks.

“She gave me an enchanted rose. Since I was cursed, it has lost one petal every month. Apparently, it will stop shedding petals when I understand true love.”

Eames frowns. “And if it loses all of its petals?”

“Then I die,” Arthur says, sounding so indifferent about it that Eames needs to look at him again, just to make sure this isn’t a joke.

Eames is silent for a long moment, and then finally says, “Can I see it?”

“No.” Arthur’s reply is immediate. “Of course not.”

“Show me,” Eames pushes, knowing Arthur is at his most pliant after a fight. He presses until Arthur finally gives in, getting to his feet and leading the way.

Arthur opens the door of his study and walks to the table Eames had noticed before, by the window. He reaches for the thick, black cloth covering the shape on it and pulls it away with the light whisper of fabric. Eames makes a small sound of surprise at the gentle red glow emanating from the rose that floats suspended in the ornate bell jar.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs and Arthur lets out a short bark of laughter, turning away from the rose like he can’t bear to look at it.

“I have something like twelve months left.”

“Well then,” and Eames traces the gold embellishments on the top of the bell jar with a finger. “Love can’t be so bad then, can it? If it means you get to stay alive.”

“Love is an illusion, Eames.” Arthur speaks with the frustration of somebody who has had this conversation too many times. “We are, by nature, driven to look out for ourselves. It doesn’t make sense for anyone to then disregard their own livelihood for another. It’s paradoxical.”

“ _Paradoxical_ ,” Eames repeats. “So you didn’t love your family?”

Arthur looks away. “That’s different.”

“I don’t see how.”

“It _is_ ,” Arthur says, more forcefully this time. Eames raises his hands, dropping the point and Arthur lets out an agitated sigh, looking out of the window for a long moment before turning back and holding Eames’ gaze. “Are you ready for another fight?”

Eames smirks, stepping towards the door and waiting. “Lead the way, Arthur.”

 

•

 

Yusuf goes into town the following day to tend to his shop, but when he returns, he’s carrying an entire crate of art supplies for Eames. He carries them up to the art room, where Eames is finally cleaning the mess from the fights, clearing his throat when he places the crate down.

“From the Master,” Yusuf announces, when Eames stares in wonder.

“Thank you,” he says, surprised, and he repeats it to Arthur later, when they see each other at dinner.

“You don’t need to look so happy,” Arthur mutters, avoiding Eames’ eyes. “It’s only because I don’t want to owe you for making the medicine, and I’d rather you stopped tearing bed sheets apart to make your own canvases.”

“You aren’t so bad, you know,” Eames decides, helping himself to another serving of pie. “Not when you actually try to be nice, for a change.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Arthur snaps, and Eames raises a hand defensively, silently telling him to calm down.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way, Arthur, no need to get so defensive.” He pauses in thought before he continues, “Why don’t you keep me company after dinner, while I paint? It’ll be more interesting than holing yourself up in your study all the time.”

“I’ll consider it,” is the only reply. He isn’t in the art room after dinner, when Eames is setting his new easel up and testing his brushes, but he wanders by some time later, carrying a leather-bound book and sitting on the couch. He doesn’t announce his presence to Eames, who has his back turned to the door as he paints, but he doesn’t need to. Eames’ gaze flicks over to him the next time he reaches for more paint, and there’s a slight curve to his lips, almost like a smile.

“I’m only here to keep an eye on you,” Arthur says, and Eames graciously doesn’t call him out on the lie. “To make sure you aren’t making a mess of the place the way you were before.”

“Of course.” Eames turns back to his easel, mixing paint as he listens to the sound of Arthur turning the pages of his book. They don’t ignore each other, but they don’t talk either. It’s pleasant, Eames thinks to himself, having each other’s company like this. Eventually, though, he hears fewer pages being turned and glances over his shoulder, catching the way Arthur quickly pretends he’s been reading all along. He grins, turning around to face Arthur properly. “Well, if you’re going to sit here, you might as well entertain me. You’ve got plenty of paintings around the castle, so tell me—what do you think of this?”

Arthur makes a show of inspecting the painting Eames is working on like it’s the first time he’s looked at it. He’s silent in thought for a long moment before he finally says, “It… definitely makes me think of you.”

Eames smiles at this. “Yeah?”

“It’s bright and loud, and impossible to ignore.” Arthur doesn’t smile, but his tone is lighter than normal. “Just like you.”

“Well,” and Eames raises an eyebrow, lips spreading into a smirk. “You could definitely stand for a little more brightness in your life.”

Arthur snorts, turning back to his book, but Eames notes that he doesn’t disagree.

 

•

 

The days pass faster now that Eames isn’t bored out of his mind and Arthur is slowly learning to open up. More often than not, they spend their time in the art room, with Eames working on a painting and Arthur reading. Sometimes they talk and sometimes they don’t; it doesn’t matter. Sometimes they argue, sometimes they spar, and Arthur will pretend that he isn’t fascinated by the way Eames can change forms so quickly, carrying himself differently, transforming into an entirely new person in the blink of an eye.

He’s in his own form and they’re fighting. It’s dark outside; the sky is overcast and the diffused moonlight shines through the window of the art room. Arthur can’t remember how he got here; maybe after dinner, maybe later still, but Eames is crowding against him, winning their fight. His arms are thick and despite the fact that he’s a little shorter, that Arthur’s curse makes him a little bit stronger, there’s a solid strength to him and he’s the better fighter. Arthur feels Eames’ foot knocking against his own, making him lose his balance, and doesn’t let go when he falls.

Eames grunts as they both hit the floor and grins, rolling over to hold Arthur down. They struggle against each other, Arthur trying to escape the hold and Eames’ grip tightening. Then, Eames’ hand wanders, sliding further down, and Arthur freezes. Eames’ eyes flick up to his own, silently asking for permission and Arthur isn’t sure what shows in his eyes, but it makes Eames let out a small, choked sound, crushing their lips together.

“Eames!” It becomes a gasp when Eames kisses along his jaw, down his neck, biting into the skin. He arches off the floor and Eames is hot and hard against him, broad hands roaming over Arthur’s body like he’s discovering every secret Arthur has. It should terrify him, but it only makes him tighten his grip on Eames, to the point that he’s sure his claws are digging into his shoulders. Eames doesn’t seem to care.

They kiss messily, rutting against each other there, on the floor of the art room. The only thing Arthur can hear over the sound of the blood rushing in his head is Eames panting against his ear: “Arthur, Arthur.”

Eames' hands are down the front of Arthur’s pants, stroking steadily and Arthur opens his eyes, not even having realised he’d closed them, holding Eames’ gaze as he does the same.

“God I want you,” Eames whispers, and arches into the touch of Arthur’s free hand, scratching five, dark red lines down his back. “Just like that, Arthur. Tell me how much you need this, Arthur. Tell me.”

“I…” Arthur’s breath catches and he—

He wakes up with a jolt. His breath is ragged, his sheets drenched with sweat, and it takes him a moment to readjust to reality. He exhales loudly, dropping his head back onto his pillow and staring up at the ceiling, confused, aroused and terrified. He shuts his eyes, but quickly opens them when he’s assaulted with the image of Eames on top of him once again. He sits up, pulling his sheets back and glaring at his traitorous erection, trying to will it away. His body refuses to obey and with a growl of shame and frustration, he tugs his pyjama pants down, carefully wrapping his fingers around his cock and pumping.

It isn’t his fault that he thinks of Eames; of his beautiful lips, of his talented hands, his broad shoulders and cocky smirk. It’s not his fault that Eames is physically attractive, and that’s all it is, he reminds himself as he releases into his hand and reminds himself again the next morning when fighting down the hesitation to face Eames as usual. Nothing more than a physical attraction.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop Arthur from noticing Eames like he’s looking at him for the first time. They see each other in the dining room for breakfast and Arthur tries valiantly not to watch the way Eames’ plump lips spread into a smile in greeting.

He desperately wants to the spend the day hiding in his study, avoiding Eames at all costs until the can be in the same room without him thinking of them grinding against each other, but of course he’s not that lucky. Eames invites him to the art room and Arthur can’t refuse. He sits there, his book untouched as Eames works on a new painting, and just to fill the silence so he can stop feeling so awkward, he asks, “What are you working on today?”

Eames tells Arthur about one of his favourite books; about how the world is always described so vividly, so brightly that he wants to make an attempt at illustrating it. He tells Arthur about the entire story as he paints the basic colours onto his canvas and he sounds so happy when he talks about it that Arthur doesn’t even think twice before he gets to his feet.

“Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Eames asks, but he’s already cleaning his brush, putting the lids back on his paint bottles.

“You’ll see.” Arthur grins. “I promise you’ll like it.”

There’s a corridor that leads out of the north wing, not back to the rest of the castle but to an extra part of the building. Arthur stops at the large double doors, glancing at Eames to make sure he’s watching before he pushes them open.

He leads the way inside, and Eames’ mouth drops open at the sight that greets him.

There are bookshelves everywhere; lining every wall of the room, stretching up two, three storeys, all of them crammed with books. There are books of different sizes, their bindings all in different colours, and for a moment, Eames forgets how to speak.

Arthur gives him a satisfied look. “I told you that you’d like it, didn’t I?”

“May I…?” Eames asks, waiting for Arthur to nod before going to explore. He runs his fingers across the spines of the books, lips moving silently as he reads the titles. “There’s so many—you must have been collecting these books for _years_.”

“This way,” Arthur calls, walking to one end of the room. “I’ve got books about magical creatures here. You can read them if you’d like—you aren’t going to see any of your lot from this castle, so at least you can read about them.”

“My lot?” Eames asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know. Witches, warlocks, creatures from fairy tales—”

“Oh Arthur, and I thought you were doing so well.” Eames sighs heavily, looking disappointed. “Those fairy tales are just stories made up by _your_ lot, to make their children afraid of us. Afraid of _you_.”

“They’re _cautionary tales_ ,” Arthur corrects sharply, “about wolves who kill families in the night. Witches who cast curses that ruin people’s lives.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you were doing a wonderful job of that yourself, Arthur,” Eames snaps. “Somehow, I doubt that your life would have been very fulfilling anyway, bitter and driven by hate. Not that the curse seems to have made much of a difference in that respect.”

Arthur’s scowl is fearsome, but Eames remains unshaken. They stare each other down until Arthur turns away with a snarl. Despite trying so hard to avoid arguing, it still comes to this and the disappointment stings.

“I don’t even know why I bother,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head. “Read whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.”

His footsteps are loud in the sudden silence that’s fallen between them as he stalks out of the library, fuming. Eames watches him go, but even if he wants to stop Arthur from leaving, he stays right where he is.

 

•

Arthur doesn’t show up to the art room the next day, but Eames cannot bring himself to care. He doesn’t want to see Arthur anyway, to be reminded that all the changes he thought he’d seen were nothing more than products of his own hope. He doesn’t want to think about what that means about him.

He works on a new painting, using only different shades of grey, and leaves it on the easel when it’s finished, sometime in the late afternoon, eyeing it dispassionately before he puts his paints away. His movements are mechanical as he cleans his brushes. Yusuf has been in town all day, but Eames wanders down to the laboratory anyway, to check if he’s returned yet.

“Eames,” Yusuf says, his expression guarded when he looks up from the herbs he’s chopping. “I don’t mean to pry, but… I know you and Arthur are sparring regularly, but the crashes I heard from last night were a lot more violent than normal.”

“That was Arthur.” Eames sits down and tries not to think about the sounds of things crashing and breaking that he could hear, even from the library. “Just Arthur. We had a disagreement.”

Yusuf gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You’re better off avoiding him today anyway. Tonight’s a full moon. He’s not going to be in the best state, considering.”

Eames frowns, getting to his feet. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Best to leave him alone…” Yusuf begins, but by the time he looks up, Eames is already gone.

The curtains are drawn across all the windows he passes, blocking out the light and making it impossible to tell the time of day. Eames makes his way through the corridors he’s beginning to grow familiar with, knowing that Arthur will be in his study. He opens the door without knocking and ducks just in time to avoid the hardcover thrown in his direction.

“Go away, Eames. I’m not in the mood to deal with you.” He sounds tired rather than angry and Eames raises his hands, keeping them in sight as he walks further into the room.

“Not a good night to be brooding on your own,” Eames murmurs, watching Arthur carefully. He’s standing at the window, curtains pulled back, the full moon large outside the window. The bell jar with Arthur’s rose sits on its small table beside him, uncovered, but when Eames reaches towards it, Arthur catches his hand by the wrist.

“Don’t.”

“It’s lost a petal,” Eames observes quietly, looking at the fresh petal lying beneath the rose among the others, dried and withered by time.

“Every single full moon.” Arthur forces the words out between clenched teeth. “As if looking at the moon and thinking of my family isn’t bad enough, I take another step closer to death.”

“Unless you break that curse,” Eames points out.

“Spare me, Eames. I have no interest in fairy tales.”

“Oh come on, Arthur. Surely it‘s better than dying. You _can_ break your curse. You have to stop being so damn stubborn.“

“Love isn’t real,“ Arthur snaps. “There is no way to break this curse. Why should I even bother? Just to waste my time pursuing something that doesn’t exist and end up bitterly disappointed?”

“Honestly,“ Eames growls, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you‘re the one who hates beasts so much. You hate _all_ magical creatures—and you're happy staying the way you are?“

“I never said anything about being _happy_ , Eames—“

“You don‘t ever want to change back? To look like this?“ Eames shifts, and suddenly Arthur is staring at himself. No; he’s staring at the way he _could_ be. This version of him has no horns, no claws. His eyes are a deep brown and his teeth aren‘t pointed.

Something inside Arthur snaps. A nasty voice at the back of his mind tells him that _this_ is what people want to see in his place. This is what Eames wants him to be, and before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing Eames— _himself_ —by the front of his shirt and throwing him across the room, at the door. His strength sends Eames flying and when he hits the ground, he’s shifted back into his own form. He gets to his feet shakily and Arthur is already advancing, roaring with anger. He‘s looked at himself for so long after the curse, hating everything he‘s seen. Now that he‘s finally come to terms with it—Eames has no right to make him begin doubting everything all over again.

“Arthur—”

“Leave,” Arthur’s voice barely sounds human. “Get out of my sight. Out of my castle. Now.”

Eames stands his ground, refusing to be cowed. Arthur lashes out and he doesn‘t hold back; doesn‘t give Eames a single chance to retaliate. He pays no heed to the pained sound he hears when he hits Eames across the face. Arthur follows as Eames stumbles backward, not letting him regain his balance. Arthur is merciless in his anger, hitting him repeatedly until he stops fighting back.

There are five angry lines across Eames’ chest, cutting through his clothes, into his skin, staining everything red. His face is bruised, and he‘s lying on the floor, in a mess of broken wood and torn books that have gotten in Arthur's way.

It would be so easy for Arthur to end him; it _should_ be easy—but it‘s not. There‘s a look in Eames‘ eyes that Arthur has seen several times as a hunter; that one moment of realisation, _I am going to die_ , but beyond that Arthur can identify something else. _Disappointment_.

As though Eames has been hoping for something better, and Arthur can‘t explain why this one look causes guilt to lance right through him—Arthur can‘t explain anything with Eames; why it feels so good to fight with him, why _Eames_ has to be the first person in a long time that Arthur has found remotely attractive, or why Eames is here, checking on him on a full moon night as if he actually cares.

Eames is confusing and Arthur knows only one thing; he needs to get away from this man who threatens to change everything he‘s grown used to—before they can do any more damage to each other.

Not that there will be any difficulty in pushing him away, Arthur thinks bitterly.

“I‘m repeating this once, and once only.“ Arthur‘s voice is low, but it lacks the growl from before, sounding more resigned than aggressive. “Leave my castle. Now.“

Eames scrambles to his feet, silent even though Arthur knows that he must be in severe pain.

“You,“ Eames croaks, holding onto the door frame to support himself, “are a fucking _lunatic_. I‘d be safer out there with all the covens in the world out for my blood than shut up in the castle with _you_.“

Arthur doesn‘t respond, he just waits for Eames to leave, slamming the door behind him, and waits for the relief to wash over him.

It doesn‘t.

 

•

 

When Yusuf finds Eames, halfway to Arthur’s study himself, he swears loudly and insists on taking him back down to the laboratory to patch him up. Eames refuses, and there’s a hard edge to his eyes that tells Yusuf not to argue.

“I’m leaving,” Eames declares, and Yusuf only nods, helping him gather his belongings into a bag, following him until he’s safely on his horse.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? See if he calms down and changes his mind?” Yusuf asks, frowning with concern.

“Please,” Eames snorts. “We _are_ talking about the same man, aren’t we?”

Yusuf sighs, conceding the point. “Be safe.”

“I remember my way through the forest,” Eames says in reply, but they both know that this isn’t what Yusuf means. Cobol is still after Eames and he doesn’t have many options. He’ll need to go back to the Cobbs’ house and as he guides his horse through the ghostly forest, he pretends that the anger rushing through him is because of this—because he is on the run again, and not because Arthur’s obstinacy frustrates him more than it should.

In fact, he thinks, he shouldn’t be caring about Arthur _at all_. He’d only gone to the castle to hide, and Arthur had never been welcoming. He has no reason to care about whether Arthur lives or dies, about whether he breaks his curse or not.

But it weighs on his mind even as the castle disappears in the eerie fog behind him and the lights of the town blink through the night, calling him to them.

There aren’t very many people on the streets and Eames optimistically thinks that he can get to the Cobb household without being noticed. Of course, the very moment the thought enters his mind, he hears a voice calling out to him.

“Oh, Eames! Last I heard, you were at the beast’s castle.” It’s Nash and of all the townsfolk, he is the one who talks most about the beast— _Arthur_ , Eames corrects himself mentally, not the beast—to an obsessive degree. Eames remembers hearing that Nash had once been a well-paid servant at the Wolff castle before being dismissed when Arthur had been cursed, and that he’s never forgiven Arthur for losing the comforts of the castle. “Did he let you go?”

“Something like that. Good evening, Nash,” he says, with the intention of going right past the man, but Nash stands in his way.

“Are the rumours true?” Nash asks, wide-eyed, “Does the beast really hunt his own meals and eat them live?”

“If I recall correctly, you’re the one who made that rumour up in the first place,” Eames frowns. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, of course,” Nash steps to the side, allowing Eames passage down the lane. Eames is too far and too tired to hear him, but Nash smirks, watching him leave. “Going to stay with the Cobbs again? You’re making this far too easy for Cobol.”

 

•

 

It’s been three days, and Arthur has heard nothing of Eames. As much as he tells himself that he really doesn’t care, he’s been agitated ever since, constantly feeling tense, and all of the servants in the castle have begun to go out of their way to avoid him. Even Yusuf, who can handle Arthur better than the others, does not emerge from his laboratory unless it is strictly necessary; leaving meals for Arthur on a rolling butler’s tray outside of his study before returning to his own work.

The art room makes Arthur feel antsy, but he finds that he cannot stay cooped up in his study; the way he always did before Eames had ever come along, because it feels so cramped and uncomfortable now. He’s pacing in front of the roaring fireplace, just by the window that Eames had always kept open, when he hears the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone. There’s a horse crossing the stone bridge, approaching the castle, and Arthur doesn’t even stay at the window for long enough to see who it is before rushing towards the door, pushing past startled maids and nearly knocking a vase over in his haste. He pulls the front door of the castle open as the cloaked figure approaches and Arthur’s heart skips a beat when he recognises Ariadne’s face.

“You’ve come back,” he says, hopeful, and ignores the way his chest tightens when she shakes her head.

“It’s me, Arthur.” Ariadne pushes the hood off her head and she looks exactly the way Eames had—no, he corrects himself, Eames had done a perfect job of imitating her. “Can I come in?”

A mere month ago, he would have refused. Now, he only steps aside numbly. “I can have some tea brought for you if you’d like.”

“I need to talk to you,” she says. She glances behind her, wary, as if she may have been followed. “It’s about Eames.”

“This way.” Arthur leads the way to the art room, ignores the twinge of— _something_ he can’t name—when Ariadne sits on the side of the couch that Eames had always preferred. Arthur stands at the window, trying his hardest to feign disinterest when he asks, “What did he do this time?”

“He needs your help.” Ariadne pauses for a moment and she notices the way Arthur stiffens, giving her his full attention. She takes a breath and continues, “I don’t know if he told you—the Cobol coven’s after him for something… he’d been doing a pretty good job of avoiding them, but he ran into Nash on the way back to the town.”

“ _Nash_ ,” Arthur growls, remembering the name. He’s never liked the man; Nash had been one of the first to go after the curse.

Ariadne’s lips turn downward before she says the next part, “Nash sold him out to Cobol. They ambushed him this morning—took him away somewhere.”

“Ambushed him?” Arthur repeats, disbelievingly. “I’ve fought him—several times—and I know he’s not that easy to take down.”

“Actually,” Yusuf speaks up from the doorway, having noticed Ariadne’s arrival, “I last saw him yesterday. I made a batch of medicine for him because of his… wounds. It was a strong dose, but it would have left him weak and tired.”

“That doesn’t make it _my_ fault,” Arthur snaps, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s the only one to mention blame at all. “Surely, he could have shifted into another form to fight off his attackers.”

“It’s not that easy,” Ariadne snaps. “Shape shifting requires a great deal of _energy_. Energy Eames usually has plenty of—just not when he’s been ravaged by a temperamental _beast_.”

Arthur growls threateningly, but Ariadne resembles her mother far too much when she’s angry; it reminds him of why he’s in this position to begin with and he sighs heavily, looking away. “Why are you telling me this? I kicked Eames out; he isn’t my problem any more.”

“If that were really true,” Ariadne says evenly, “you wouldn’t even have let me into your castle. My parents are currently trying to get information out of Nash. He’s being difficult but they’re good at getting information when they want it. He’s eventually going to spill everything he knows, but we don’t think it’s a good idea to wait until then. Who knows what they’re doing to Eames?”

“You want to go save him,” Arthur realises.

“And I want you to help me,” Ariadne adds. “I can’t do much on my own. I haven’t even come into all of my powers yet.”

“No.” Arthur turns away, facing the window, shaking his head. “No, I’ve fought covens before, when I was a hunter. I know Cobol’s a particularly powerful coven.”

“You could take them,” Ariadne says confidently.

Arthur chuckles bitterly. “That isn’t the problem here. When—when your mother cursed me, one of the conditions was that I was never allowed to kill another magical being. I know how a fight against a coven will go; there are going to be dead bodies.”

“Couldn’t you just be careful?” Ariadne pleads. “Do your best not to kill anyone. Just hurt them enough to get them out of your way, just for long enough that we can get Eames back.”

Arthur frowns as he thinks it over. He knows that it isn’t so easy. Regardless of how hypocritical it might be, Arthur knows that he won’t be able to hold back if anybody has hurt Eames. He’d kill anyone who would so much as lay a finger on Eames, because Eames is _his_ —the thought startles him, unsure of where it’s come from, and he looks up to find Ariadne still watching him, waiting for an answer.

“Arthur?”

He exhales loudly. According to his rose, he has a year left to live and he knows that he won’t break his curse in that time. An odd sense of disappointment washes over him and he realises with some surprise, that there’s always been some hope of turning back. But it doesn’t matter. What’s another twelve months of being the beast he is, if it means that he’ll save Eames in return?

“I’ll do it. We’ll go and save Eames.”

“Are you sure? Completely sure?” Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you _are_ aware that if you kill anyone… and if you just said that you probably will…”

Steeling himself, Arthur nods once. “I’m sure. I know what’s going to happen, but—well, I think that some sacrifices are worth making.”

Ariadne beams, clasping her hands together. Arthur misses it, still looking out of the window.

“How are we going to find him?”

“Magic,” Ariadne replies succinctly. Arthur turns to her this time and she raises an eyebrow, daring him to protest. He doesn’t, so she continues, “Scrying magic is the fastest way to find him, but I’m going to need something that belongs to him first. Something with his essence.”

“Essence,” Arthur repeats.

“Something he uses a lot, or something he likes. When you’re looking for someone, you use things that they’ve… got a connection with. It’s easier to use something they’ve made—”

“Eames paints,” Arthur interrupts. “Can we use one of his paintings?”

“That’s perfect.”

“We’ll use his most recent one. He finished it the afternoon before—before I kicked him out.” Arthur paces as he talks, stopping in front of the fireplace. A painting of the forest—monochromatic and just as eerie as the real thing—hangs there and Arthur takes it down.

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “You’ve already put it up?”

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters absently, his attention focused on the painting as if it’s Eames he sees, not just his work. “Is this all you need?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Ariadne takes her spell book out of her bag and places it on a nearby table. Arthur paces impatiently as she begins casting and normally, she’d snap at him for distracting her. Except this is Arthur and it’s clear how desperate he is to find Eames. She decides that it’s a good sign.

 

•

 

They leave as soon as Ariadne’s spell determines where Eames is. As Arthur has suspected, he’s being held in the castle the Cobol coven uses as their headquarters and the thought of Eames being held prisoner in the castle’s dungeons makes Arthur growl with rage. Never mind that Eames had once been his prisoner, too.

They spare only the briefest moment to stop by the Cobb household, where Mal is trying to extract information from Nash. The look she gives Arthur is hard and full of warning when she tells him to keep her daughter safe, but there’s a distinct lack of the underlying hatred they once bore for each other. Ariadne hugs her parents, her little sister and her newborn brother, and they set a fast pace across the countryside, riding their horses hard and taking breaks only when truly necessary.

It takes them just over a day to reach Cobol territory, carefully making their way past the small towns scattered across the area, towards the castle. They leave their horses a good distance away, making the rest of the journey on foot. It’s approaching dawn and Arthur knows to be careful; most of the magical beings in the Cobol coven are strongest at night, but he knows better than to underestimate their security.

“We’ll strike at midday,” he decides when they hunker down in the woods nearby. Ariadne does a sweep of the area and decides that they’ll be safe here, adding a safety ward around them just in case. Arthur glances at her and adds, “I’ll keep watch, get some rest.”

“You should sleep too,” she murmurs, her eyelids already growing heavy.

“I’ll sleep later.” Arthur won’t sleep until Eames is safe, but he doesn’t say this.

“I promise you,” and Ariadne leans against a tree trunk, wrapping her cloak tighter around her, “I’ll do what I can to hold them back, when we strike. I’ll paralyse them so you don’t have to kill them.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Arthur replies, his gaze fixed on the castle, not unlike his own. At length, he adds, “but thank you.”

Ariadne’s eyes are closed, but he sees her smile.

He lets her sleep for four hours, as he makes a plan. He’s made sure to arm himself; he has his short bow, his sword, three knives and—he supposes—a fledgling witch. He makes sure they’re well-hidden by the trees as well as Ariadne’s magic, observing the members of the coven making their way back to the castle as the sun rises into the sky. From what he can tell, the castle’s layout doesn’t vary too much from his own and if he’s right, that works in his favour.

“My castle has an external entrance to the dungeons,” Arthur says, once Ariadne has blinked the sleep from her eyes, just as alert as he’s been for the past day. “I doubt they’ve left the dungeons unguarded, but at least it means that we avoid unnecessary fights on the way there.”

“So we just need to worry about getting back out of there,” Ariadne muses.

“Right. That’s going to be more difficult, so make sure you don’t expend too much of your energy on the way in. There’s one variable we can’t account for—we have no idea what state Eames is going to be in. If he’ll even be conscious by the time we reach him.”

“He’ll be okay,” Ariadne reassures him. “Eames is a pretty resilient guy.”

“Well.” Arthur smirks. “He _did_ survive staying at the castle with me. If barely.”

They’re both ready by midday. There’s been no activity at the castle for a couple of hours now, but Arthur and Ariadne are careful to stay out of sight as they approach, crouching behind the low walls and making their way around the castle, to the dungeon entrance.

They take a breath before entering, and then they’re moving forward, through the shadows, avoiding the light thrown by the torches in their wall brackets. Ariadne has a strong paralysis spell, but she’s saving it—along with her energy—for when they’ll need it on their way out.

They come to the first guard post and Arthur steps forward, the torchlight shining against his lacquered horns as he easily disarms the guards, knocking them unconscious with the flat of his blade. The sound of the guards dropping to the floor alerts the others, though, and from there, they have no choice but to fight their way through the waves of guards that come from deeper within the dungeons.

“They’re after the shape shifter!” a voice calls, which tells Arthur that they’re going in the right direction. He scans the cells for Eames, barely managing to duck a vicious swing of a club, and Ariadne sends paralysis spells in all directions, weaving through the bodies and leading the way deeper into the dungeons. Arthur can feel them going further underground and realises at the back of his mind that it’s going to be much more difficult to fight their way up and out, but the thought disappears from his mind when he hears Ariadne’s voice.

“Arthur! He’s here!”

He breaks into a run, coming to a halt in front of a tiny cell. Eames is bruised and battered, his shirt torn and covered with dried blood. His wrists are cuffed behind his back and his posture looks uncomfortable, but still, he looks up at Arthur, eyebrows raised.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wasn’t about to sit and wait for you to get out of this mess yourself.”

Eames smiles ruefully. “I should be touched that my being captured actually got you to leave your castle for once.”

“That isn’t funny,” Arthur growls. He barely looks away from Eames when he addresses Ariadne. “Can you break the bars?”

“Sweetheart, be careful, they’ve made the prison out of some tricky magic-resistant material,” Eames murmurs.

“Please,” Ariadne grins. “I’m the daughter of _Mal Cobb_.”

She splays her fingers out across the thick steel of the prison bars and mutters something under her breath. In the blink of an eye, they cease to exist; there’s a gaping hole where the door once was and even the cuffs on Eames’ wrists are gone. The skin underneath looks like it’s been rubbed raw and Eames follows Arthur’s gaze, shaking his head once.

“It’s nothing.”

“We should leave,” Ariadne says, peering back the way we came. “The less time they have to assemble their people, the better.”

“Right.” Arthur steps forward, hauling Eames up and taking most of his weight. “Ready?”

“Please, I _can_ walk—” Eames mutters, but when he tries, his legs are weak. Arthur holds onto him, tighter this time, and hands him a small vial. “Yusuf sent this with me. It should restore some of your energy until we get you out of here for some proper treatment.”

Eames nods wordlessly, downing the contents of the vial and grimacing at the taste. It works quickly; he can feel his strength returning and by the time they’ve reached the stairs, he no longer needs support to stay upright and is armed with one of Arthur’s long daggers.

“Oh,” Ariadne says in a small voice, stopping in her tracks when she sees the dark shapes of all of the coven members who stand between them and the exit; a tiny sliver of sky that taunts them from a distance.

Eames tenses at the sight and Arthur steps forward, standing in front of them both, knowing that he is the only one of them who has ever been this badly outnumbered before. Only last time, the shapes had been wolves and he had been without the support of a witch and a shape shifter. He unsheathes his sword and the sound of metal sliding against metal rings out in the silence; a signal that sets everything into motion.

The creatures before them charge forward, the first of them crashing into the magical barrier Ariadne raises just in time. There are wings, claws, fangs, crowding all around them and Arthur shrugs his short bow off his shoulder, picking off whatever he can without stepping past their safe boundary. Ariadne makes a pained sound and Arthur knows that their barrier is weakening. The arrows he shoots aren’t designed to kill just yet, only to hinder, but their attackers advance on them with every centimetre the barrier recedes, waiting to reach them.

“You can’t hold this up for much longer,” Arthur says to Ariadne, “we’ll need some of your energy to hold off any pursuers.”

“Alright. Ready?” Ariadne asks, glancing at Arthur and Eames to see them both nod. Their magic shield disappears, but she immediately casts out another spell, passing through the bodies in front of them like a shockwave. Bodies drop to the floor, paralysed, leaving only the witches and warlocks skilled enough to resist the magic.

There’s still several of them and they charge, casting their spells. Ariadne is already shouting counter-spells and Arthur uses the distraction to attack those closer to him, slashing with his sword and claws alike. They fall to the ground, bleeding but still alive. Arthur pushes forward with grim satisfaction; he knows, from his days of hunting, how to cut people severely enough that they wish for death that doesn’t come.

Eames swears faintly behind him and Arthur thinks that perhaps he’s never seen this kind of violence, but then he is pulled roughly to the side, avoiding a fireball. His back hits Eames’ solid chest and there’s a lingering, almost possessive, grip on his shoulders as Eames hums in thought.

“I have an idea.”

“I can tell I’m not going to like this,” Arthur mutters.

“I’m going to shift so I can be useful.”

“ _No_. You don’t have the energy—Yusuf’s medicine isn’t going to last that long.”

“I wasn’t _asking_.” Eames pushes Arthur behind him, towards Ariadne. “Stay well out of my way, both of you. Watch this, Arthur, it’s my favourite trick.”

“What—?” Arthur begins, but falls silent as Eames’ form begins to shift. It grows, and Arthur thinks that perhaps he’s just going to use size to his advantage, but that’s when he sees the wings unfurling from Eames’ back.

Ariadne swears, her eyes wide, and there is a dragon standing where Eames once was; barely small enough to fit between the walls. If Arthur and Ariadne are bewildered, their enemies are even more so. Eames steps one taloned foot forward and roars. It’s a devastating sound that echoes in the tiny space and Arthur would hate him for the fact that it rings in his ears too, if not for the fact that Cobol’s people are far too disoriented by the sound to avoid the stream of flame that engulfs them.

Eames clears the way, his size and fire-breath making their attackers flee. They reach the entrance and Eames shifts back, looking tired and extremely pleased with himself. He takes a shaky step towards Arthur, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees to keep himself upright. “Are you impressed, Arthur?”

Arthur’s lips twitch into what would almost be a grin if not for the movement that captures his attention. There’s a warlock standing behind Eames, hand raised as he chants, his target clear.

Arthur hasn’t come this far to lose Eames now.

“No,” he growls, grabbing hold of Eames and shoving him out of the way, pulling a dagger from his boot and flinging it before the warlock even has the chance to finish his spell.

There’s the loud, solid sound of the dagger embedding itself in the man’s throat. He gurgles, blood bubbling past his lips as his eyes turn lifeless.

“Arthur—” Eames begins, but he falls silent as Arthur turns to face a witch who approaches, slashing at her face.

“Let’s go,” Arthur says impatiently, ignoring her screams and wrapping an arm around Eames to support him as they make their escape. Ariadne casts another spell on them to make them undetectable as they go to their horses. Eames is barely conscious and Ariadne’s breathing is laboured, so Arthur remains alert enough for all three of them as the spell wears off.

Ariadne’s horse balks at the smell of blood, but Arthur’s remains steadfast. With a quiet grunt of exertion, Arthur helps Eames onto his own horse, sitting behind him.

“Don’t you dare fall off,” he whispers into Eames’ ear, letting Ariadne lead the way out of the woods.

There are few members of the coven in any state to give chase and Arthur easily picks them off with his bow. They go down with arrows protruding from their necks; it’s astonishingly easy to kill again now that he’s gone against the conditions of his curse. These people have hurt Eames and he no longer has any reason to let them live.

Ariadne notices, eyeing him warily once she catches her breath, once they’re on the long dirt road that leads home.

“That warlock…” she begins. He glances at her and she licks her lips nervously before continuing. “You killed him so easily, considering the consequences.”

“The spell he was casting,” and Arthur’s voice is unusually soft, “I’ve seen it used before. Eames wouldn’t have survived it. It was a fair trade; his life for Eames’.”

“Your chances of being human again, for Eames’ life,” Ariadne corrects. “You willingly made that sacrifice. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Arthur looks away with a huff. “It means that if he doesn’t last until we reach the castle so Yusuf can tend to his wounds, I’m going to be very angry.”

Ariadne laughs, and she thinks she sees a faint grin on Arthur’s face. They both know it won’t come to that; Eames simply needs rest and though he shows signs of rough treatment, it’s nothing serious.

“For what it’s worth,” Arthur says at length, “I was… incorrect in my generalisations of magic users. I wouldn’t have been able to do this on my own.”

“I know,” Ariadne says. “You’re welcome, by the way. It’s what friends do.”

“Friends,” Arthur repeats thoughtfully.

“…Arthur,” Eames mumbles, followed by something drowsy and incoherent, and Arthur places a hand on his shoulder, steadying and comforting at once.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs absently, maybe just to have something to say, but Ariadne notices that he doesn’t move his hand away for the rest of the ride.

 

•

 

By the time they return to the castle, Yusuf already has plenty of medicine ready and waiting for all three of them. Ariadne and Arthur are easy enough to take care of; they’re tired and have some minor wounds from the fight and the rough ride, but these are easily dealt with. Eames, on the other hand, is still unconscious and Arthur doesn’t even try to hide how much this concerns him.

Yusuf declares that Eames needs to rest in order to regain his strength, and Arthur sits by his bedside, in the same room he’d used when he’d previously been at the castle. Ariadne returns home when she’s properly healed and after being snapped at for suggesting that he take breaks, Yusuf quickly learns to let Arthur stay where he is, waiting for Eames to wake.

Three days pass and Arthur becomes increasingly agitated, wearing the carpet thin with his pacing, worrying the castle’s staff. When Eames finally wakes, however, Arthur is asleep in his chair, mouth open as he snores softly. Eames lies where he is for a long moment, taking in the sight of Arthur, rumpled instead of everything being neatly in place, still wearing the same shirt he’d had on when breaking him out of Cobol’s dungeons.

He tries to sit up and sees movement at the door; it’s Yusuf entering the room, helping him up.

“About time,” Yusuf says good-naturedly. “You’ve been out for three days. I’ve had to start slipping sedatives into the Master’s tea just to make sure he gets some sleep.”

“He’s been here all this time,” Eames says, and it’s not a question. He remembers hearing Arthur’s voice; first the panicked, _wake up, just open your eyes_ , steadily becoming more desperate and threatening as time had passed.

Arthur chooses that moment to wake with a start, already yelling, “ _Yusuf_! I know you drugged me—”

He falls silent when he sees that Eames is awake and stares at him in silence for a long moment before looking tremendously relieved. “You’re awake.”

“And you must be very tired if you’re stating the painfully obvious,” Eames replies, his smile fond.

“I’ll go and mix more medicine,” Yusuf says, even though the bowl on Eames’ bedside table has plenty in it. “I’ll tell Ariadne that you’re awake so she can visit sometime later.”

They barely notice him leaving, not looking away from each other.

“That warlock…” Eames begins.

“You shape shifted into a _dragon_ ,” Arthur interrupts. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Well,” Eames looks pleased with himself, leaning back against his pillows. “It requires a great deal of talent and imagination. And plenty of energy.”

“Energy you didn’t have,” Arthur shakes his head. “You idiot.”

“Speaking of idiotic things, you _killed_ that warlock.”

“That wasn’t idiotic,” Arthur’s tone is dismissive. “It was entirely necessary. He could have killed you.”

“Your curse—”

“He was going to kill you, Eames,” Arthur says, less patiently this time. “Now, you’re going to stay here until you’re fully healed.”

Eames raises an eyebrow, and it’s the same defiant expression Arthur has seen several times already. “Was that a question?”

“… _Will_ you stay in the castle until you’re fully healed.”

Eames continues watching him with an expectant look and Arthur growls, looking away.

“Will you _please_ stay in the castle until you’re fully healed?”

“There we go,” Eames smiles. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

“Just answer the question, Eames.”

Laughing softly, touches the hand Arthur has resting on the bed. “Of course I will.”

“Thank you.” Arthur looks so relieved to hear this that Eames simply can’t resist the urge to sit up properly, leaning across so he can kiss him. Arthur lets their lips linger against each other for a moment before he pulls away, watching Eames carefully.

“What was that?”

“A kiss, you dolt.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Arthur licks his lips unconsciously. “Why…?”

“You’ve been at my bedside for the past three days. You infiltrated a coven’s castle with the help of just a fledging witch to save me. You killed a warlock to save my life.” Eames shakes his head. “You _attacked_ me and yet, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since leaving the castle.”

Arthur flinches at the reminder. “But like you said. I _attacked_ you.”

“Yes, well something tells me you won’t try that again now that you know I have a _dragon_ in my repertoire. Besides, I’ve never really liked boring things.”

“You should hate me.”

Eames smiles wryly. “Well, if you wanted me to, I’m sure I could try.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Arthur says quietly, and this time he’s leaning across to kiss Eames. He feels Eames’ hand, gentle on his shoulder, and brings his own hand up to cup Eames’ face carefully, kissing him harder. Their lips are soft against each other and Arthur breathes Eames in, comforted by his warmth, by his touch in a way that he’d never thought possible.

“Stay,” he whispers when they pull apart. He looks at Eames, crimson eyes looking into blue-green, “Stay here with me.”

They pull each other close once again, and Eames smiles against Arthur’s lips. It’s all the answer he needs, and it takes Arthur a moment longer to realise, but he’s smiling too.

 

x


	4. Epilogue

The moon is high in the sky, bright and full, and Arthur stands at the window to look out at the road that leads to the castle. Eames’ hands rest on Arthur’s side, lips ghosting over the join of his neck and shoulder, and Arthur leans back into the touch.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Arthur murmurs, placing one hand over Eames’ to keep it from sliding too far down. “Not when we’re waiting on visitors.”

Eames chuckles, his breath tickling the nape of Arthur’s neck. His hands go up to rest on Arthur’s shoulders and his voice is a touch more serious when he asks, “How are you tonight?”

“It’s a full moon night,” Arthur says, and though this would have said enough just a few months ago, his voice is just a little halting this time. He sighs and Eames can feel the muscles relaxing beneath his hands as Arthur continues, “I have you, though, don’t I? My rose hasn’t lost a petal for the past twelve months.”

It sits uncovered in its usual place, glowing from within the bell jar, and they both look at it. There are only twelve petals left on it. One for every month that has passed with Eames staying at the castle, with Arthur learning how to smile, how to relax, how to go out and not care who sees him as he is.

He still has his horns, his claws, his tail; everything, but he is not cursed. This is who he is; he knows it, Eames knows it, and that’s all that matters to either of them.

“I thought I’d die today,” Arthur mumbles, looking at his hands.

“Not any time during the past year, I’d hope.”

“Before that. Before you.” Arthur turns around, pulling Eames close, and they fit together with a comfort that comes with spending so much time together; learning how to avoid Arthur hurting Eames by accident. It had been difficult—for both of them—to learn to share space, but it doesn’t show now.

They pull apart just in time to see the stagecoach approaching the castle. Ariadne sits on the driver’s box, holding the reins in one hand and waving up at the castle with the other. Eames waves back through the open window, leaning out as far as he can without falling. Arthur holds onto the back of his shirt anyway, pulling him back in once the stagecoach is out of sight, having gone around to the stables.

“You know I won’t fall,” Eames grins as they put their coats on, making sure they both look presentable.

“I do,” Arthur smoothes Eames’ lapels and then grins at him. “I just prefer knowing that it’s because I won’t let you. We both know how good you are at getting yourself into trouble.”

“Honestly. I get captured by a coven _once_ and you never let me forget it,” Eames says with an exaggerated pout.

“I was actually referring to the time you decided to go _exploring_ the wolf dens in the forest because you thought your shift would fool real wolves.” Arthur’s crimson eyes are bright with amusement. “And we won’t go into the fact that you carry out large-scale heists for the fun of it.”

“I don’t see you stopping me,” Eames smirks. “Besides, the magical artefacts go to the Spinning Top—which _you’re_ a member of, in case you’ve forgotten—and all of those wonderful first edition hard covers go straight into your library.”

“ _Our_ library,” Arthur corrects, pressing his lips to Eames’. “Come on, we’d better get downstairs.”

For several months now, the Cobb family comes to the castle for dinner. It had initially been a decision between Eames and Ariadne, and though Arthur had come to terms with his curse and bore no resentment towards Mal, it has taken some time to reach the point they are at now. Mal and Arthur greet each other warmly; they’ve made friends easily now that Arthur has learned to stop hating magical beings. He’s similarly friendly with Ariadne and while Phillipa is still learning to overcome her fear of his horns and claws, James has decided that he likes Arthur, gurgling happily at the sight of him.

“You look much happier now,” Dom says, once they’ve finished eating. Phillipa and James are asleep and the rest of them have relocated to the large den; another of the many rooms in the castle that Eames has cleaned out and redecorated.

“I am,” Arthur says, feeling warm for a reason that has nothing to do with the crackling fireplace or the wine glass in his hand, and everything to do with Eames sitting beside him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this pleased about being wrong.”

“About love?” Mal asks. She already knows the answer, but friends or not, she enjoys embarrassing Arthur. “Perhaps you just needed the right person to come along and prove to you that it’s real.”

He ducks his head and glances at Eames with a small smile. “Perhaps.”

Arthur barely ever says that he loves Eames in as many words, but it doesn’t matter when he makes it obvious enough. Still, later that night when the Cobbs have gone home and they’re undressing each other in their large bedroom, Arthur stops just for long enough to take Eames’ face in his hands, pulling him in for a deep kiss and whispers, “I love you.”

Eames’ smile is soft and— _beautiful_ —Arthur decides, not even ashamed for thinking it. He’s still smiling as he lowers Arthur onto their bed, kissing whatever skin he reaches, up his neck and along his jaw.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, lips brushing against Arthur’s before they kiss again.

For a long time, Arthur has never expected to live past this point, but here he is; with Eames, alive, and he knows that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 _End_.


End file.
